


Congregate

by AuroraNova



Series: The Vadari Chronicles [19]
Category: Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: Cardassian flirting, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-25 21:30:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,385
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21362980
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AuroraNova/pseuds/AuroraNova
Summary: “This is a family event, you two. Don’t make me tell you to get a room.”Julian is happy to attend a neighborhood potluck. Elim is far more interested in finding conversational openings to be amorously argumentative.
Relationships: Julian Bashir/Elim Garak
Series: The Vadari Chronicles [19]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1336183
Comments: 23
Kudos: 164





	Congregate

**Author's Note:**

> This was supposed to be all about Julian and Garak integrating into the community a bit more. There's some of that, but Garak took over large chunks of the story being lustfully disputatious. These things happen, right?

“Must we attend this event?”

Julian doesn’t look up from the radishes he’s slicing. “You don’t have to. I’ll be there unless I need to work late.”

“I will be forced to spend the entire evening dodging unsubtle remarks and questions. Everyone will hope to uncover where I learned the skills to affect a successful rescue,” says Elim.

He’s not wrong. The neighborhood is extremely interested in the topic, and just when gossip about them had started to settle down. Julian is half-convinced they’re going to fuel the rumor mill for the rest of their lives. On the other hand… “You’ll enjoy every minute of it. You love being seen as mysterious and potentially dangerous.”

Julian mentioned this two days ago when catching up with Ezri. She thinks it’s because the perception helps connect Elim to his long-held self-image, and she may well be right. Or Elim may just enjoy being dramatic. Julian has no intention of sharing Ezri’s theory regardless.

“Perhaps I’m, what is the quaint human term? Turning over a new leaf?”

“Right. That’s why you preened when Lutro suggested you have a special ops background.” Julian shakes his head and reaches for another radish. “The last thing you want is for anyone to believe you’re just a simple tailor.”

“It was a refreshing change of pace.”

“Maybe at first. Then you were bored to tears.”

“Never in the history of my race has a single Cardassian cried of boredom.”

“They wouldn’t be likely to admit it if they had, would they? After confessing an embarrassing weakness like that, a Cardassian might as well give up any ambition and retire to be a hermit on some marginally livable plot of land in the middle of nowhere.”

Elim is delighted. Oh. Jumping around from topic to topic, seeking the best argument: he is aggressively coming on to Julian, who hates to be the bearer of bad news but feels obligated to point out, “There’s no time for sex this morning.”

“There would have been, if you weren’t so insistent upon making this elaborate salad.” He gestures with some disdain to Julian’s pile of vegetables.

“It’s a potluck. Showing up empty-handed is extremely rude.”

“The event organizers don’t provide food?” asks Elim.

The trouble with this whole flirting-through-argument process, from a human perspective, is that it can be tricky to know whether a given objection is based on real concerns or simply a convenient subject to express, as Elim puts it, ‘your desire for an intellectual challenge, combined with a demonstration that you believe the other to be a worthy match.’ Sometimes, a quarrel is just a quarrel. Most of the time it is not. Julian is still learning the differences which, in true Cardassian fashion, are exceedingly subtle. He’s getting much better with practice.

Now, for instance, he can tell Elim is genuinely confused by the expectations for a potluck, as opposed to exploiting cultural norms to be amorously disputatious. It has a lot to do with inflection. So he explains, “A potluck is an informal social contract whereby attendees bring a contribution. Failure to do so makes you look like a presumptuous freeloader.”

Elim scowls. “Why didn’t you say so three days ago when you announced your intention to attend? Now I have to fit time in my day to go to the store and prepare a dish.”

“Oh, no. This is our joint contribution. Couples and families generally count as a single unit for this purpose.”

The potluck was planned without much notice, and Julian has been busy at the hospital. Due to the ongoing staffing shortage he splits his time there, two days seeing scheduled patients during regular hours and three in the emergency department (plus his turns at being on call). The variety suits him. However, it’s been an eventful few days for emergencies and his focus has been firmly on his patients.

Also, it didn’t occur to him that Elim hadn’t come across the concept of a potluck already. Bajorans have mralin gatherings, which are essentially the same thing with a touch of religious custom added. ‘Mralin’ translates to ‘potluck’ in Standard. Well, in the early days of an interspecies romance, especially when said species are so different as humans and Cardassians, it’s inevitable that incorrect assumptions will be made from time to time. This is clearly one of those instances.

“Are you certain I don’t need an offering of my own?” asks Elim “I don’t want to create a bad impression.”

No, he wouldn’t. He crafts his image with great care. “I checked with Kara, and I’m making two bowls of salad to be safe.” Two large bowls. It’s a lot of salad, perhaps more than is strictly necessary.

“Let me make sure I understand this correctly. I am welcome to eat without contributing any food to the communal meal, simply because we are in a romantic relationship and you are bringing salad?”

“Yes. If you’d like to help, you can peel the fednor.” Though sometimes called ‘Betazoid cucumber,’ fednor isn’t much like cucumbers, really. For one thing, it’s pink. For another, the peel is tough and best not eaten.

“What a strange custom. Mind you, I still think that the host should provide food for a gathering. It’s only proper.” Quibble notwithstanding, Elim starts in on the fednor. “Also, for the record, I’d much prefer removing your clothes to vegetable skin.”

“Your objection has been noted.”

* * *

The potluck is taking place in the park for all residents of Prefabs 4 and 5, twin buildings which make up their own small neighborhood. Happily, Julian was able to leave the hospital a mere ten minutes late today, and therefore misses none of the event.

Kara waves them her way. She seems to be recovering from their kidnapping well. Still healing, emotionally speaking where Julian is not much help, but coming along nicely. She’s tougher than she thinks she is.

As for Julian himself, he found that misadventure wasn’t a big deal. He survived much worse, and after spending a month as a Dominion prisoner with little to no hope of escape and knowing a Changeling had stolen his life, a few days in a holding cell with Elim on the way was nothing. His concern was always and is still for Kara.

“Hi guys. What did you decide to bring?”

Julian holds out the bowl for inspection. “Salad.”

“That does play to your food prep strengths,” she says with a nod.

“What’s that? Cutting vegetables neatly?” Julian is good at that part. He takes his cooking victories where he can get them. Like soups. Those are hard to ruin.

“Choosing the components based on nutrition.”

Ah. That. Kara is under the impression that Julian’s habit of selecting food according to what he and Elim require is somehow a bad way to go about putting together meals. As though he can simply turn off the part of his brain reminding him that he hasn’t eaten a particularly good source of zinc for two days. Kara does not work out her meals by nutrients. Evidently she has heartfelt opinions about what sides do and do not go with white fish, and sweet potato is firmly in the no column.

“Nutrition is the foundation of health,” he says.

“Julian feels so strongly about this he has a short one-man play on the subject,” Elim says helpfully. He’s obviously gearing up for a night of winding Julian up, culminating in barely making it through the door to their apartment before clothes come off. (Julian really is getting better at reading these signs.)

“I do not.”

Their sex doesn’t have to be preceded by extra bickering. It can be fun, though. Julian feels very accomplished when he gets under Elim’s skin enough to compromise his prized composure.

“I distinctly remember the line, ‘Well, Crewman, you can’t live off raktajino and jumja and then expect a robust immune system capable of warding off every virus which comes to the station.’”

Oh, Elim is reaching tonight, isn’t he? Calling that bit of venting over lack of common sense a play is a stretch even by his standards.

While Kara chuckles, Julian feels obligated to clarify, “I phrased it much more patiently to the actual crewman. And if that’s a one-man play, you’ve written dozens about difficult customers. ‘Whoever gave her the impression yellow flatters her complexion ought to be tried for crimes against fashion and good taste,’ for example.”

“That was for your benefit. You were supposed to ask if yellow is a good color for you, so I could inform you it is not.”

“Terribly sorry I didn’t follow your script.”

“I hate to interrupt,” says Kara, “but did you bring the list of ingredients?”

Julian pulls said card out of his pocket. With multiple species and any number of potential dietary restrictions, not to mention personal preferences, it’s a sensible precaution. Elim will be reading them carefully to make sure he doesn’t eat any dairy, and there are some Vulcan spices of which Julian isn’t fond. One in particular makes his tongue itch. 

They get their bowls of salad, along with the bottles of dressing Julian did not make himself, on the table. There’s plenty of appetizing food already and more people are arriving.

“What did you make?” he asks Kara.

“Sourdough bread and honey butter. The honey is as fresh as you can get.”

That sounds promising. “I’ll look for it.”

There is quite a lot of good food, as it turns out. Ktarian cuisine isn’t Julian’s favorite, as he’s learning, but that notwithstanding the community has some talented cooks.

Towards the end of his meal Julian ends up discussing a provocative new paper from the _Journal of Respiratory Studies _with Dr. T’Lin, one of the few colleagues who reads medical journals as voraciously as he does. (The lesser Vulcan need for sleep probably helps her as much as Julian’s reading speed enables him to keep up with his subscriptions.) Elim, whose interest in lung pleura is nonexistent so long as his are functioning well, wanders off to speak with George and Saul, the grandfatherly couple who live across from Kara and Lutro. As expected, he enjoys himself dodging their leading questions.

Elim is making peace with his new life, the same way Julian is. This time, he chose it. Or so Julian believes; as always, Elim prefers to drop clues rather than outright state his feelings or course of action. Still, there is not one shred of doubt in Julian’s mind that, had Elim wanted to rebuild the Obsidian Order, he could have done so upon his return to Cardassia.

He didn’t. That says everything.

No one else present knows this, and they’re not going to learn from Julian. Here, on an agricultural moon of no larger significance, at a simple community potluck, the neighbors are speaking with a man who might at this very moment be ruling what remains of the entire Cardassian Union, if he had so chosen. Elim could’ve brought back the old Cardassia, either by slipping into the shadows like he used to or eschewing them for a simple dictatorship.

He loves Cardassia enough that he left, instead. Not to save his own life, but to save his world from the chaos caused by his presence (and even more, by any attempt to assassinate him). He wants his world to reach its potential, even if he can’t be there.

Whatever else he is becoming, Elim will always be a former Obsidian Order agent, even more than Julian will always be a former Starfleet officer. Some identities are never fully subsumed. All the same, this Elim Garak is free to be who he wants, instead of who Tain told him he ought to be.

And the wonder if it is, he wants is to be Julian’s partner.

Julian returns to his conversation with T’Lin. She makes some valid points about flaws in the article, though she’s inclined to throw the proverbial baby out with the bathwater. If she notices his adoring gaze, she refrains from commenting on it, which suits him just fine. The Vulcans here make space for some emotion, yes. They do not go in for besotted grins of the ilk Julian suspects he’s been wearing quite often lately.

As it turns out, Elim doesn’t spend the _entire _evening giving evasive replies to questions about his past. Towards the end he, Sorvek, and two other gardening aficionados start discussing winterization of perennials. Julian tries without success to figure out which McPherson triplet is in the bunch. He cannot for the life of him tell the women apart, and wishes they’d consider different hairstyles or some other visual indication.

“Dr. Bashir.” A young man with lime green hair – Julian frights to think what Elim will say about _that_ \- sticks out his hand. “Marcus Berneski.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Julian recognizes Marcus from the rec complex where he and Elim play laser tag, but they’ve never been introduced and he didn’t know his name until just now. The dye job is new, too.

“Likewise. I’ve started working at the rec complex.”

“I’ve seen you there.”

Marcus shuffles his feet and struggles to meet Julian’s eyes. That’s rarely a good sign in interpersonal matters. “So, the thing is, I work there and I absolutely suck at laser tag. It’s embarrassing. I’ve seen scores, so I know you and Mr. Garak have the highest hits per shots fired by a big margin, and I thought, maybe you might have a few pointers?”

Ah. Marcus isn’t awkward about Julian’s enhancements, he’s nervous because he’s eighteen or nineteen asking a favor of an older person who’s a virtual stranger.

It’s a refreshing change of pace for Julian to have someone assume his accuracy is a teachable and thereby learned skill, as opposed to hand-eye coordination enhanced by geneticists. In truth, both play a role. Julian may have been given an advantage, but he also received Starfleet training, as even pre-med cadets have to pass the basics, not to mention his private lessons from a former Obsidian Order agent who declared, “if you’re going to go around shooting people to save your friends’ lives, Doctor, you must have better aim.”

“And I know you’re really busy with more important things, obviously, so if you don’t have time it’s fine, but I just thought, no harm in asking, right?” Marcus sticks his hands in his pockets, looking like he’s starting to reconsider the wisdom of this request.

Julian, while not inclined to take on a laser tag student, respects Marcus’s pluck enough to offer, “Is there any chance you could take your break, say, fifteen minutes before one of our reservations?” It’s enough time for the requested pointers, at least. If Elim comes along to amuse himself, as he probably will, Marcus may find himself getting more than he bargained for.

“That’d be great! Thank you so much. I’m sure I can get my break arranged. I really appreciate it.”

“You’re welcome. We have a room Thursday at nineteen hundred hours, so eighteen forty-five?”

“I’m looking forward to it. I’ll, uh, let you go now, but thanks again!”

Julian can’t help smiling as the young man walks away. Pluck, indeed.

Elim sidles up. “A new admirer?”

“Mainly of our laser tag prowess. Evidently we have the highest ratio of hits per shots taken by a considerable margin, so he wants tips.”

“And I suppose you couldn’t help but agree.”

“I think I can spare him fifteen minutes.”

“Hardly enough time for a proper lesson.”

“I’m sure he’d be open to it if you make the offer.”

“Unfortunately for him,” Elim says, “I am not invested in his laser tag success.”

“Not looking for a chance to have an impressionable young man eating out of the palm of your hand?”

“How unsanitary. No, my dear, any interest I may have had in attracting such attention purely for its own sake is in the past. I find myself quite satisfied without it. Besides, you seem to be confusing generalized attention for that of a specific, worthy individual.”

Before Julian can decide whether he wants to debate or mention Elim’s romanticism, Lutro calls out, “Julian!”

“Yes?” he says as Lutro walks over at a good clip.

“Is there any chance I can recruit you for the breakdown committee? We lost a couple of people.”

“Of course.”

Elim puts on his ‘concerned citizen’ face. “Failure to follow through on one’s commitments is irresponsible.”

“You can’t blame Evelyn,” says Lutro, ignorant of just how easily Elim can if he puts his mind to it. “AJ was doing so much better until this week.”

Yes, the boy in question has suffered a step back in his recovery from Breen radiation. He landed in Julian’s care just Wednesday when his mother brought him into Emergency for horrendous stomach pain (and attendant dehydration from refusing to drink). It’s time, in Julian’s opinion, to consider the newer pediatric organ regeneration treatments which have not yet made their way to common use in this far-flung sector of the Federation. He suggested it to AJ’s primary physician and hopes he managed to tamp down any frustration with not being able to make the call himself. It’s not always easy to step down from being CMO, but God knows Julian is trying.

“Family needs are understandable,” Elim concedes. “Did the other person have good reason to shirk their pledge?”

“You make it sound like the breakdown committee signed legally binding contracts. Pete finally got the nerve to approach Rochelle one-on-one, so we let him off the hook.”

“How convenient for him.”

Julian sees a good opportunity for a bit of needling and goes for it. “Are you going to complain about other people, or are you going to help?”

“I never made any promises of my labor.”

Kara wanders over folding a tablecloth. “Did you get voluntold, Garak?”

“I’m sorry, what?”

“Voluntold. When someone else volunteers you for a job and then tells you that you’re expected to do it.”

“I certainly hope Julian knows better than to try such a thing.”

Julian scoffs. “Please. That happened every other chapter in _Bloek’s Lament_ and you thought nothing of it. What do you need me to do, Lutro?”

“The tables have to go back in the storage shed. Does everything come back to books with you two?”

“Not everything, but when I catch him blatantly setting up a double standard, I’m not going to let it go unchallenged. It’s a matter of principle.” He flips a table to the side, retracts its legs, and leans it against the tree the way Lutro just did.

“Yes, Julian does love his principles,” says Elim, deigning to make himself useful with another table. “Though I’m afraid he’s misinterpreted our latest Cardassian novel, an unfortunately common occurrence.”

“I’m still ahead of him, considering I can appreciate literature from other races beside my own.”

“But not Cardassian,” sniffs Elim.

“You’d be offended if you didn’t get to freely offer your own labor, but Bloek’s mother could volunteer anything up to and including part of his liver and that’s perfectly fine? How is that remotely consistent?”

“Was he supposed to let his own brother die to protect his free will?” Aha, Elim’s jaw tensed ever so slightly. It’s a nonverbal concession that Julian made a good point and a sign Elim is having a splendid time. “No reputable Cardassian author would suggest such a thing and you know it.”

Kara remarks from behind her pile of tablecloths, “This is a family event, you two. Don’t make me tell you to get a room.”

“Wait,” whispers someone walking behind them. Julian pointedly does not turn around to see who it is. “Sniping at each other is _foreplay_?”

“And here I thought they were miserable.” That’s Bindreteled from the end of the hall.

“It certainly puts things in a different perspective. I wonder if it’s a Cardassian thing or a Dr. Bashir and Garak thing.”

“Who knows?”

Mostly the former with a bit of the latter, really, but Julian keeps the thought to himself and starts lugging a table to its storage shed.

He and Elim debate the etiquette and merits of potlucks all the way home, when, as expected, they waste very little time disrobing.


End file.
